


what dark days seen

by Mizzy



Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But with a hopeful ending?, Canon Rewrite, Canonical Character Death, I FORGOT HOW TO TAG OMG, I tagged it as major character death, M/M, and we all know no one dies in marvel ever okay, but the character is already dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14581893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: AU where both Steve and Bucky went down in the ice and were captured by HYDRA. Natasha helped Bucky escape, but Steve remained and became the Winter Soldier. It's the end of the Civil War and Bucky has just been killed.Steve Rogers finds himself in a superhero-unfriendly bar on the day of Bucky's funeral, looking for a quiet drink.(Based on "Captain America” Volume 5 #26.)





	what dark days seen

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written two years ago for a Steve/Tony RBB but real life imploded on my artist. Originally we were going to wait and post later, so I waited dilligently and realised, two years later, that... I was still waiting. I figured seeing as my loveliest lovely beta immoral_crow had been a star and beta'd this piece so nicely and well, and I wrote it ON TIME TOO, I shouldn't waste our hard work. I did shoot an e-mail to my artist with no response so, uh, just imagine some pretty art here okay. Any mistakes that remain are so much my own.
> 
> I haven't been writing fic for over a year now for personal reasons. I've been trying to get better, so consider this my toe in the water to see if I can handle writing it again. I love fanfic and I love writing it and reading it and sharing it, but it's not been Great for my mental health for the past couple of years, so here's hoping the work I've been putting in has helped. Or maybe I'm just going to end up sobbing in a corner again? HAHAHA OH NO.
> 
> This fic is also dedicated to M who enables me in ALL THE GOOD WAYS. ILU. You know who you are. <3

The funeral footage was everywhere.

Steve tried to pretend he was in the bar to watch it, to see the flag-draped coffin go down into the ground, to watch Tony Stark's pathetic attempt to find words to describe the whole damn shitshow. 

"It wasn't— It wasn't supposed to be like this," a crying Stark whispered. As Stark fled onscreen for the second time, Steve lifted a triple vodka and saluted him. 

Stark's war was the actual shitshow. Bucky's murder on the steps of the courthouse was just the kind of awful punctuation that Steve was growing to expect from life. 

He nearly managed to get away with the pretense, but then Steve heard something that made his stomach shrivel up, smaller and tighter than any foodless day from his childhood: "Cap was an idiot."

Steve turned his head to stare at the speaker. He was not the only one. The guy was in his mid-thirties, and obviously drunk from his careless stagger. Maybe Steve should face up to the real reason he would choose somewhere like this dive. This guy could be a good opening.

"Barnes shouldn't have put on that uniform for even a day," the guy continued. More heads turned his way. A lot of them were nodding. Steve felt cold, his arm chilling and feeling even more alien where the metal rested snugly against his flesh. He resisted the urge to curl his metal fingers into a fist. "A disgrace to the name Captain America. Bucky Barnes, war veteran and hero? Maybe back then, but now, he turned on his own people, he fought against the will of the American people."

Steve flinched. Just because the majority of the American people thought something, it didn't necessarily mean it was right. He wanted to open his mouth and speak, to say that, to point out that the majority will of the American people used to be tuned to the pro-slavery channel, but he couldn't. Shame kept him quiet. The person that would have yelled that out loud and proud disappeared a long time ago.

Yet, something in his face must have been transparent, or maybe his flinch was too obvious, because the guy turned to him with a sour, suspicious expression, brow furrowed. "You got a problem there, pal, huh?" the guy said, stepping towards Steve.

Steve sipped at the vodka and casually glanced at the guy. He shrugged.

"Because it seems to me like you might be one of those cape-huggers," the guy continued, swaying into Steve's personal space. His breath smelled sour, hops and the stale tang of someone who hadn't brushed their teeth in a while. The scent reminded Steve of years of war hunched down regularly in supply-spare trenches. Adrenaline coursed invitingly through Steve's veins. "Seems to me like you might have agreed with Captain Fake-merica."

Steve might have tried at the start to pretend he was in the bar to watch the funeral footage, but this was what he was really looking for: oblivion. In particular, the beautiful oblivion of a violent, meaningless, fist-heavy brawl.

Bar fights were easy to start. Nights in Brooklyn were powder kegs at the best of time. Hit the right person in the face and violence would explode brighter than the fireworks on Steve's birthday. Normally Steve was the one standing in the way, not instigating the chaos, but today— Today was a brand new world. Today was a world without Captain America. 

Worse, today was a world without Bucky Barnes. 

Steve kicked the guy insulting Bucky straight in the face; the fuse was lit.

As fists started moving and bodies started flying, Steve found his mouth curving into a shark-like smile. Steve could remember how widely Bucky had smiled at him. At the devil-may-care grin of his teenage self as he leapt into combat, so happy to be at Steve's side. The grin of relief on his weathered-by-age face when he realized Steve had survived Hydra's torture. The grin growing as Steve's memories came flooding back after using the Cosmic Cube, as the Winter Soldier melted back into Steve Rogers.

Bucky hadn't understood why Steve had to leave, so soon after Bucky had found him again. He couldn't understand why Steve smashed the cube and fled. Even Steve at the time hadn't understood that running away wasn't necessary. Thanks to Stark, Steve knew now that he could have stayed. 

He should have stayed. He should have stayed by Bucky's side. But for a year and a half he'd done nothing but stay away, and now Bucky was dead, and it was—

It was—

Stark's fault, a voice deep in the back of Steve's mind hissed, and yes, yes, Stark was to blame. The fury and bitterness of the thought was a spark of heat, whitewashing past the other confusing feelings when it came to Stark. Steve had stayed away from Bucky, but he hadn't stayed away from Stark, not until the war began. That was a mistake.

The bar fight wasn't working to quiet Steve's mind, but he rallied and tried to commit to it, trying to concentrate on the sound of bones and teeth breaking under his fists, listening to the remnant of that voice that told him violence was the only thing he was good for. But nothing quietened Steve's mind, nothing outside of Stark's infuriating touches. And everything came back to Stark, didn't it. 

The anger burned. Stark's war killed his best friend. It didn't matter what else was present in the confusing mix of feelings he had for Tony Stark: revenge burned more brightly than any other distinct emotion.

Bucky was all Steve had left, and now he had nothing. He was probably laughing as the bartender started to call for the police, his mind formulating a plan. Find Stark. Make him apologize. Make him pay.

Life so rarely obliged him, which was why the flash of red and gold in the corner of his vision nearly didn't make any sense, until the modulated voice slid out.

"Seriously?" Iron Man said. Steve didn't pause from throwing the nearest goon out of the already-shattered bar window. He didn't turn and look. The rows of bottles behind the bar reflected red and gold. "This is a crummy life choice for what to do at night, even for you."

Steve narrowed his eyes. The bartender, still holding the phone, tried to avoid his glare, but it wasn't necessary - Steve's gaze was for one person, and one person alone. Steve hated the Iron Man mask all of a sudden; he couldn't see Stark's face. He would like to see Stark's face before Stark realized what letting Bucky die was going to cost him. Words escaped Steve, fury boiling in his stomach, but he was still a good soldier at the end of the day, and an enemy deserved fair warning of an incoming attack. 

"Stark," Steve said, even though when the faceplate was down, Tony preferred Iron Man. He liked the distance. Steve couldn't allow that. Distance meant denial. Denial meant not accepting what he'd done to Bucky. Tony was for the past, when he showed Steve the new world, took his hand, and told him lies. Lies like everything was going to be okay. Nothing was going to be okay again, so Tony was Stark, and Steve was the Winter Soldier, and the Winter Soldier had an assignment to fulfil. A life to avenge. 

"Ouch," Iron Man said. He didn't remove the faceplate, so he wasn't clueless as to the meaning of the name change. "This, uh, this working for you?" Iron Man gestured at the groaning men lying in various disarray around the bar.

"It worked for a moment," Steve said. "But then I realized I was treating the symptoms, not the cause."

"I hardly—" Iron Man started, but his words were swallowed up by a punch to his face, and unlike punching the civilians in the bar, Steve didn't restrict himself to using solely his human arm.

Iron Man rallied, of course he did, because that was who Tony Stark presented to the world as a hero. Iron Man. The golden Avenger. Steve surrendered himself to his rage and barreled on. Tony Stark. The merchant of death. The biggest supporter of the superhero registration act. The reason Bucky Barnes was dead and gone and lying cold in the ground, lifeless, alone, gone—

Steve's throat was sore and Iron Man fought back and Steve took the blows and soldiered on until the rage grew too strong and Steve let it boil through his veins and before he knew it, his gun was under Iron Man's chin and his finger was on the trigger and Bucky's voice was in his ear, don't point a gun at something you don't wanna destroy, and Tony's eyes were wide but open and fixed on his and the faceplate was gone, why was the faceplate gone, and Tony's eyes were on his and —-

"Hey, hey, sshh," Tony said, and through the blurriness of Steve's vision, he looked a sight; blood slipping down both cheeks, one of his eyes already swelling impressively. "Gotta admit, Bucky would have been more of a fan of this moment than any of the ones before it."

Anger stuttered through him once more, an impulse to finish the job, to make the blood join up until Tony's face was redder than his mask, but it sputtered and rolled over to be replaced by something else worse. 

The empty void.

The self-loathing.

The guilt.

Steve made one more attempt to reach for the anger that had seemed so clarifying a few moments ago, but it was gone. The solution kill Tony Stark that had beckoned him forcefully towards clarity was fading with every moment that Tony stared at him. That was the problem. He had a year of new memories from this century, and a lot of those was of Tony holding him with nothing but kindness on his face.

Tony was holding him now, and although it generally didn't happen when he was still in the Iron Man suit, there was kindness on his face. Even underneath the blood and bruises Steve had inflicted on him. It was too much. It was all too much. Bucky was gone and Steve had taken it out on Tony's face and Tony was still trying to be kind.

"You have no fucking right," Steve hissed. He made a half-assed attempt to get out of Tony's grip. When that failed, he pushed his forehead into the dented metal of Iron Man's chestplate. His eyes lowered. Iron Man's red looked a lot like blood. It seemed like an appropriate thing to fill his gaze with. The suit was getting wet. Steve was crying. The only thing that made it better was briefly imagining how surreal the whole tableau probably looked. The Winter Soldier, being held tenderly by Iron Man, both of them covered in their own and each others' blood.

"I rarely do," Tony said. "But you could be more specific."

"The funeral—" Steve said. "What you said— what you tried—"

Tony laughed. The sound was devoid of humor. "If you're trying to say I had no right to be there, at the funeral of my friend?" 

Steve flinched. 

"Steve," Tony said. His patient tone normally made Steve feel protected. Right now it was pissing him off. "I technically knew Bucky Barnes longer than you did."

Steve clenched his hands like claws around Tony's upper arms, his metal hand denting the armor a little. Tony didn't even react. "I knew him first," Steve said heatedly, because the idea of Tony trying to claim Bucky even a little bit—

"That's what you're going with?" Tony asked, and okay, out loud, it did sound childish.

Steve did know Bucky first. Bucky was his responsibility. Bucky was his to keep safe. He'd managed it once, convincing Natasha to rescue Bucky at the cost of leaving Steve behind. That had been an impossible situation, and it gave Steve false belief, that he could save Bucky from anything.

Not managing to save him this time was shattering his heart into pieces.

"I worked with him," Tony said. "I failed to convince him of the importance of registration. I let him down."

"Don't be nice," Steve said. "I can't take nice." 

Tony's laugh was bitter, harsh. "Me telling you how responsible I am for Bucky's death is me being nice? Did one of these idiots manage to land a lucky shot to that dense pate of yours, or something?"

Steve finally managed to lift his head, and despite Tony's face being the one that looked like it had gone through the wringer, it was Tony who hissed at the sight of Steve's face. Steve swallowed and didn't ease the pain he was feeling by looking away. Denial was too easy. He deserved to suffer. Bucky was gone. Steve deserved nothing but pain. He smiled, tight, toothy; the stretch of a death grin. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he said.

Tony flinched like Steve had punched him again. "I tried," Tony said, and his voice was unsteady. "I tried to say more, but how— how can you say—" and he shrugged, because how did you say Bucky Barnes was dead without screaming? "How can you admit that you weren't—" Tony huffed, and amended, "how can I admit that I just wasn't good enough?"

Steve thought about it. He wasn't good enough either. He used to think he was a good person, but Hydra had taken that away from him, stripped all his certainty away until he was left with a skeleton of doubt. Captain America had gone down into the ice with his trusty sidekick; Steve Rogers was who Hydra had found, but even he was gone. Steve Rogers, Queens kid, comic artist, the successful candidate of Project: Rebirth. Gone as much as Bucky was gone, really. Steve was the Winter Soldier now, and that felt more right than anything. He was still a good fighter. And the world felt like constant winter to him. Tony had been brief spots of warmth in the tundra of modern life. It didn't matter that Steve's memories had been put through the shredder and turned upside down. It didn't matter that Tony had come after him and worked with him until they realized that all the deaths in Steve's memory— that he hadn't killed any of them.

Nothing mattered but Bucky's body, cold and in the ground. Cold and in the ground and alone, so alone—

"He's not in the ground," Tony said.

Steve refocused his gaze. "Explain?"

"We didn't bury him. We couldn't risk a villain taking advantage of his body," Tony said. "The terrigenesis he went through-- the code stayed in his body. Someone could replicate it. It was too valuable to leave unguarded."

Steve flinched at the reminder of what Bucky did to himself to be able to take over as Captain America. The changes. The pain. And all for goddamn what, to be assassinated on the steps of some damn grey faceless courthouse for no fucking reason at all.

"Even dead, he's worth more than—" Tony looked away and through the shattered window of the bar, taking a shuddering breath. "He's still in—" He smiled then, and Steve flinched again until he realized it wasn't a smile so much as a rictus grin. "'swhy I couldn't say what I needed to over the grave. It's messed up."

Bucky's body hadn't been lowered into that dark hole. Bucky's body wasn't in the ground amongst the dirt and the worms and trapped in a box. Bucky was— Bucky was lying somewhere, probably behind a thousand miles of security measures. Should have protected him like that when he was alive, Steve thought. 

Steve didn't know what to say next. It didn't stop his mouth from moving, words escaping despite the screaming in his head. "I have to see him." The monosyllabic words snapped out like gunshot and Tony looked at him sharply, like each one had hit its mark. Tony's eyes were hooded in shadow. He obviously hadn't slept properly in weeks. Drying blood pooled around the purple and grey smears of his face. "I have to see for myself."

Tony nodded, but seemed unable to speak, which just said a thousand things about just how messed up this whole situation was.

Steve couldn't formulate words in his head, but his mouth seemed to be doing a fine job, continuing with, "I can't do it alone" before he even knew that was what he was feeling.

Tony's jaw tensed but something about his posture softened, and he caught Steve's gaze. "You're not alone," he said, his eyes wet in the dim light of the bar.

Steve wondered if either of them really believed that.

#

Of course the million miles of security protecting Bucky's— protecting Bucky— Of course it was the Black Widow.

Steve saw a glimpse of her bowed head and backed up into the wall outside the room because no, no, he couldn't face her. He was a fucking coward, but he was terrified she would look at him and only be able to see the list of ways he'd failed Bucky clear on his face. It would be a long list.

Tony hesitated for a moment, then he nodded at Steve, his mouth set into a grim line, before disappearing into the room. Steve closed his eyes and tried not to listen, but it was unavoidable.

Natasha's voice was soft but still edged, like every syllable was a knife she could carry. "I promised I would never leave his side. That promise doesn't just erode because the damn idiot got himself shot."

"You promised to protect him.” Tony's voice was low. Not as level as usual. Bucky's death had crumbled everyone's foundations. “You know how much he wanted— you know how important Steve was to him."

"He was supposed to be important to you too."

"I know he was your husband and believe me if I could undo the world to get him back for you I would, but it's not like I'm some sort of bystander here. Bucky was my goddamned best friend, Tash. Don't act like this isn't fucking killing me too."

Steve lowered his head and pushed his fingers into his ears as the bickering grew quieter and faster. He sang under his breath, a lullaby his mom used to sing him when he was sick. Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee. His eyes snapped open. The only angel that guarded Bucky now was an angel of death.

"Five minutes," Natasha said, in the distance, and she came out of the room and did not look in Steve's direction, not even once, but that was okay. Steve's mouth was dry.

When he managed to get to his feet and go to the doorway, he allowed himself to be distracted by Tony, who was carefully stepping out of the Iron Man suit. Tony took a deep breath before looking Steve in the eye. Tony nodded and gestured with his chin as if to say this way, come on and Steve responded even though he didn't want to.

There was a single seat in the room with Bucky's body and Steve had never needed to sit down more in his life.

Much like his mouth had moved without permission, dropping slackly into an open oh, his knees seemed to follow suit, crumpling beneath him like they'd needed Bucky alive to function. He fell down like a forgotten concertina, and it was only Tony's strength, impressive even out of the Iron Man armor, that got Steve up into the chair.

It took Steve a moment to look up.

It took him longer to shake the notion that he was on eye level with his best friend's corpse.

Did Bucky still count as his best friend? Bucky had just been a teenager, Steve his superior, and their years of battling together had made them— 

There weren't any words for it. It didn't matter. Why define something when it was gone?

Steve forced himself to look. To take in the sight. Bucky's body lying neatly on the slab. The red, blue and white hanging limply from his now-aged body. The terrigenesis had slowed Bucky's aging but he was still an old man. There were only the shadows of the teenager Steve had known. It was when Tony nestled in close behind and put his hands on Steve's shoulders that Steve realized he was shaking.

"He never stopped believing you were alive," Tony said. In the secure room, the acoustics were dampened. Tony was speaking at a normal volume but it sounded more like a whisper. It felt appropriate, although Steve wanted to shout and wake Bucky up. It was like being stabbed in the gut to know even shouting in a more noise-friendly room wouldn't work.

"He knew I was alive," Steve muttered. 

"Only for the last eighteen months," Tony said. "But he was the damned happiest I've ever seen him, and that includes in his wedding photos."

Steve tried to swallow. The room was hermetically sealed when there was no one else in it. It left the air dry and cloying. "How's Nat handling that?"

"Same way as you, mostly," Tony said, and his voice sounded strained, like he was speaking through another of those death-mask smiles. "Except until she took up guard duty here, she chose some better targets for her fists. Her takedown records were through the roof."

"Good," Steve said, approvingly. "You two sounded... amicable?"

"We've reached that point. After four broken ribs and a cracked femur," Tony said. Steve jolted and turned up to look at him, but Tony was busy staring at Bucky's body with loathing clear on his face. "The doc said I'm lucky to be alive." 

Steve turned his face away. "I thought about killing you," he admitted, even though it felt silly now. The rage had subsided and the facts were coming back, clear and loud. Registration. That was the enemy. Both sides had been fighting it. That was the problem with a world full of superheroes. After being able to punch your enemies for decades, learning how to dance with them was another matter. Tony had been trying. Bucky had thought he was doing the right thing. No one was right, that was the problem. Everything was wrong.

Tony shuffled but kept his hands on Steve's shoulder. Anchoring them both. "I thought about letting you," Tony said, his voice quieter.

It was like hearing Bucky Barnes has been shot dead on the courthouse steps this morning by an unknown assailant all over again. Steve had to fight to get his breathing under control. He clenched both fists, the human one and the metal one. Hydra had taken his arm as an experiment, to see if they could clone another Captain America from his flesh. Steve and Tony had tracked down the abomination that they'd created a few months ago, before registration reared its ugly head. Tony knew back then that the registration act was coming.

Steve had to know, though. He had to know the one thing that had been bugging him since the news broke. "Did you tell him?"

Tony's hands tightened on Steve's shoulders. He didn't ask for clarification. "Of course I did," Tony said, his voice stiffly. "Not everything, but I tried. He wouldn't listen."

Steve let out the breath he was holding, ignoring the sound that came with it. "And of course he didn't believe you."

"He thought he was doing what you would have done," Tony said. 

"But he listened," Steve said. 

"To as much as I could tell him, until he decided I'd said enough and shut me up."

Steve stared at Bucky's body, feeling wounded at the thought of Bucky doing what he would have done. Would he? If he'd known everything? "And he knew about Project Wide-awake?"

Tony stilled. "He didn't let me get that far," he said, grinding the words out.

"Tony—"

"He wouldn’t listen. The only reason you even believed me about the Goliath thing was because—"

Tony didn't finish the sentence. It was deliberate. He didn't want to bring back the sum of their year working through Steve's mindwashing, as they worked to differentiate what was real and what wasn't. The fact that hundreds of the deaths Steve remembers being responsible for were a fabrication by Hydra to try and make Steve kill for them doesn't stop Steve remembering how it felt to have their blood on his hand, on his face.

Tony was aware that the words filled the silence anyway, so he gave Steve a moment to process, to take a deep breath and recover, before continuing. "But even if we'd talked and he'd listened to what I knew was gonna happen—" Tony took a moment to shudder, and really, with the weight of everything, it was a miracle he was still standing. "Bucky was just a figurehead, Steve. He wore the uniform and bore the shield, but even when the terrigenesis made him look young, everyone remembered the truth, that he really was—"

Steve's chest felt tight. "If you say helpless, I swear to god—"

"He was 82 years old, Steve," Tony said, firmly but not unkindly.

They settled into silence. It wasn't companionable, but it was almost calm. Steve wanted to laugh for some reason. Only an hour ago he wanted to kill Tony Stark, and now Tony was the only thing keeping him still through this moment, the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. When Steve remembered Bucky he was a vibrant teenager, leaping into battle at Steve's side. And now he was an old man underneath the youth the terrigenesis gave him, and he was dead, and Steve had finally failed him, like he'd always been scared of.

"You looked for me," Steve said.

"And found you," Tony said, slowly, like he wasn't sure what Steve was aiming at.

"I meant— when Bucky found me again, and used the cosmic cube to get my memories back— and I ran away. You looked for me."

"Of course I did. You were— You're important."

"You looked because I was Captain America. Had been. Used to be."

"I— I suppose?" Tony didn't often sound confused. It wasn't a reassuring sound, but then, Bucky was dead. The whole world had lost its foundations. "Steve, what are you getting at?"

"You looked for me," Steve said. "Would you have looked for him?" He nodded at Bucky. "It was nearly him. He was nearly— this," he gestured with his metal arm. "It was just dumb luck we both got caught by the plane. And it was thanks to Natasha that I was even able to get Bucky out in the first place." He stared at the line of Bucky's nose. It was slanted unfamiliarly. Bucky must have broken it at some point. 

"I don't know," Tony said. "I don't know if I'd have— If the Winter Soldier came out of nowhere but you'd been around for years and— I don't know." He sounded angry, but Tony not knowing things was always one of his bugbears. "I guess we'll never know." He made a frustrated noise. "I'd like to think otherwise but I'm kind of irrational when it comes to you," he said, in a quieter voice.

Steve did laugh at that, dry, frustrated, because it was an understatement. This thing with Tony Stark had been incomprehensible at best and dynamite at worst. Still, Steve found himself climbing into bed with him every time their missions brought them into orbit. 

Bucky hadn't known. Steve hadn't been able to explain that Tony had helped put him back together, piece by piece, after Hydra shattered him apart. Steve had wanted to see Bucky again when he was whole, when he was fixed, when he was ready. And now it was too late.

"I failed him once but got my chance to fix it. And now I've failed him again, but there's no way to fix it."

"Steve," Tony said, sounding winded.

"What if I hadn't managed to convince Natasha to get him out, back when Hydra took us? She wanted to get me out first. He'd have been this," he gestured at his arm again, "and I'd— I'd have been there—" He pointed at the slab and Steve could feel Tony's full body shudder, just from where his hands still rested on Steve's shoulders. "That would have been me," Steve said, and then, with more conviction: "It should have been me."

"And I'd be lying right alongside you," Tony said, fiercely, and oh, no wonder Tony had trouble hearing Steve saying it, because hearing it in reverse—

"You think so?" Steve said, forcing his voice to stay level, even as his mind filled with images. At first there was the obvious, the nice things, the amount of time Bucky had spent as Captain America, years that would have been Steve's. He might never have had this thing with Tony Stark, but he'd have been able to fight alongside him, and hey, Steve probably wouldn't have aged like Bucky. Maybe he would have been able to fight alongside Tony with both of them at their prime, side-by-side, warriors and brothers in arms. 

But then the decay of registration fouled the image, and Tony was right: Bucky had been doing what he thought Steve would do. If Steve hadn't known the things he did know— The things he only knew because he and Tony spent so much time together figuring out his real memories hidden among the mindwashing— 

"I—" Tony started.

Steve interrupted. "I'm stubborn. And you'd know about all the same things. Bucky chose— he chose this path in the war for a reason and I— I would have listened to you just as much, if I thought you believed registration was the best option. I probably would have—" If he hadn't known about Project: Wide Awake and the sentinels… If he hadn't known the Thor cloning abhorrence would have been undertaken anyway, without Tony's careful supervision… If he'd thought Tony was actively supporting that abomination and not working behind the scenes to soften everything… "We'd have been enemies," Steve said, sounding the words out.

"Stop," Tony said, voice reedy and labored.

"We'd have fought."

"I can't—" Tony said, but he couldn't muster a convincing denial. The weight of what ifs were always heavy to bear. "We'd have talked," Tony said, quicker, more urgent. "Steve, we would have tried to talk, right?"

Steve was silent, because the answer was as clear as it could be. Maybe they would have talked. Maybe they wouldn't have.

The maybe not made Tony's voice strained, desperate. "I can't be in a world without you," he said, low and rapid and his fingers were claws now in Steve's shoulder, and the pain stung a little, but Steve took it because he deserved it and more. "Don't ask me something that makes me picture that. If it was you lying there—" He inhaled a sharp breath that sounded like dying. "I'd basically already be dead," Tony finished.

"No," Steve said, his voice strong with the assurance of it. "You'd live."

"No."

"You would," Steve said, and after what felt like an eternity, the certainty of it makes him able to unclench his fists. He laid his hands on his knees steadily, ignoring the contrast of metal and flesh.

"No."

"You would because I would ask you to."

Tony made another unbearable sound and then his face was in Steve's neck, warmth and wetness, and Steve let him, because it was unfamiliar, and because everything burned, and one moment of comfort even in the presence of Bucky's cold, still body was something they both needed.

"He asked me to save you," Tony said, into Steve's neck. "But the only way I know how… I don't know how to ask that of you."

Steve flinched. He knew what Bucky would have asked. The one question that had made him virulently sick when Tony had posited it a year ago. 

Tony couldn't ask it.

But if Bucky had asked it—

"Not straight away," Steve said, his voice unsteady. "I can't— The shield was his for so long. And people hate Captain America."

Tony stepped away from him over to Bucky's— over to Bucky, and he gently picked up the shield. Steve's stomach churned. Tony held out the shield, straight and strong with the gesture. "The people need Captain America," Tony said.

"Well, you should have thought of that before—" Steve started and Tony pulled up and away, stung, and Steve got to his feet, already sorry. "I didn't mean—"

"You did," Tony said, and his face was carefully shuttered off, even though the Iron Man suit was tidied away and he had no physical mask to do so. "It doesn't matter. I agree, for whatever it's worth now." His mask of self-loathing only slipped when he glanced again at Bucky's body, and he reverently laid the shield back down. "I— Do you want some time alone now? Can you—?"

"Yeah," Steve said, his voice tight. "But wait for me outside?"

Tony's expression spoke of his surprise at that, but he ducked his head and nodded as he left the room swiftly, trying to hide how wet his eyes were from Steve. Their relationship was complicated, but it always had been. Something being complicated was never a reason to give up.

And oh, that meant he was going to do it, didn't it? He was going to take the shield back, and wear the colors, and be Captain America again, and this was the worst possible way for that to happen, and yet—

The future wobbled forwards, uncertain, and dismal, but there. A dimmer path than it had been. But not hopeless.

"I'm so sorry, Bucky," Steve whispered. "And I'm gonna miss you like hell. I'll be Captain America for you. As long as the world needs me. I'll go on for you. I promise." In the quiet room the words were swallowed up. But as Steve stood up and reached sadly for the shield, his fingers tracing the familiar metal, Bucky's face seemed to be wearing a soft smile.


End file.
